


Of Poetry and Sentiment

by Nikoleta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Friendship, M/M, Poetry, Sentiment, Sherlock hates poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoleta/pseuds/Nikoleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stumbled upon a collection of war poems. Sherlock disagrees. This lead to an argument about the importance of poetry, which lead to John trying to explain emotions and feelings and sentiment to Sherlock, which lead to a rather unexpected revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Poetry and Sentiment

It was another typical boring day in 221B Baker Street, and a certain John Watson had just returned from the library. As he looked through the many shelves of the library that day, he had finally decided on one particular book that he liked the moment he saw it. It was a collection of poems – war poems. He walked briskly back to his apartment, the book in his hand.

He climbed up the stairs two at a time, gently placed his book on the table, and prepared himself a cup of tea, only half-aware that his flatmate was doing what he usually does – lying down flat on the sofa, eyes closed. When he came back from the kitchen, he noticed that Sherlock had two nicotine patches. He felt slightly annoyed at that. He sighed deeply, and let it go. Just this once. He wasn’t going to allow this to ruin his day. The lecture can wait.

He sat down the sofa, opened his new book and started reading. He sipped his tea every now and then, but as he went on, he was so engrossed that he forgot about it completely. He was reading a poem about two brothers who were separated by the war when the book was suddenly snatched away from him.

Startled, he jumped out of his seat. “Hey! What on-“

“You’ve been reading,” came a monotone, flat voice.

The annoyance he felt before started creeping up in him again. “Yeah. No shit, Sherlock.”

“It’s been more than 2 hours. What is this, anyway?” Sherlock cocked his head and held the book at arm’s length and narrowed his eyes at it.

John blinked, surprised. He’s been reading for- “Hang on,” John frowned, “You only noticed me _now_? After 2 hours?!-“

“It’s probably another romance novel of some sort. But why would you- Oh. Of course. Must have related to you. Wait. It’s not that ‘Twilight’ thing you read before, right? Because if it is-“

“I- What? No! I didn’t even last 5 minutes on that bloody book.” John tried to reach for the book, but Sherlock simply held the book higher with one hand and pushed him away with the other. Damn his height. “Sherlock, if you actually read the title, you’d know that it’s-"

“ _Poetry?!”_

“Sherlock, just-“

“ _War Poetry?!_ Oh for goodness’ sake, John-!” Sherlock frowned, disgusted and confused at the same time.

“Look, I know it’s not your thing, but-“

“John, this is absolutely pointless! Return it to the library. Read those ridiculous mystery novels you used to read before.”

John gritted his teeth, and stared Sherlock down as he started flipping through the pages, wrinkling his nose. John doubted that he was even reading them. He just stared at him, waited for a whole minute to pass, waited for Sherlock to, waited for his anger to dissipate, waited until he was sure that Sherlock won’t disturb him the second he opened his mouth again, waited until he was sure he wasn’t going to punch his face the moment Sherlock did. Instead of defending himself, he decided to ask Sherlock slowly. That always seemed to help him not to punch Sherlock immediately. Besides, he was curious.

“What did poetry ever do to you?”

Sherlock simply scowled in irritation and threw the book like it was nothing. He looked at John in the eye, “Sentiment, John. Sentiment in the most complicated form. They make absolutely no sense! No amount of deduction can be used here because poems are made of flowery, ridiculous words that make no sense at all! There is absolutely no logic in them!”

Before, John could argue, Sherlock looked at the ground and said in a lower voice, “And I don’t understand why people can’t just... tell other people what they truly feel. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

John shrugged, finally understanding. Of course. Sherlock hated emotions, sentiments, and everything involved with it, and poetry basically radiates them. “Of course it doesn’t make sense. Poetry’s _all about feelings._ They’re not supposed to make sense. Well, not to everyone, only to those who feel the same.” He picked up the book.

Sherlock groaned and paced about. “Are you implying that I do not know how to _feel?_ I just don’t understand why people can’t just be frank and use their brains for more important things – like math!” He sat down, elbows on knees, his whole body shaking from restlessness. “If I love someone, I’ll tell them. I won’t bother trying to cover up what I truly feel with complicated words that will no doubt confuse them.”

“Well, that is rather the point, you know.”

“What is?!” Sherlock snarled.

John explained, like how a mother would explain the world to a child, “Emotions are complicated. Using complex words, well... That’s what the poet is trying to do. He’s trying to tell the person that he loves her-“

“Well why don’t he just say so, then?! It’s not that hard, really. All he had to say is-“

“No, Sherlock, you don’t understand, it’s not that easy-“

“Why not?!”

“Because!” John shouted. When Sherlock shut his mouth, John continued, his voice still strained, “Sherlock, no one feels love and love alone. With it comes jealousy, whenever he sees her with someone else. Greed, to keep her to himself. Fear, that maybe she’ll find someone better. Doubt, that maybe he’s not enough. See? And it’s different for everyone...”

John frowned slightly, musing. Sherlock stayed silent. John continued explaining, “Poems... they’re like secret codes. They’re meant to be complicated. Not everyone is meant to understand them. They’re only understood by the people who understand what the poet is feeling. Do you... Do you get what I mean? The poets are trying to send a message. Mostly, the poet is trying to say, “I love you but I hate you too so there” but in the most absurd and amazing way possible that only people who-“

“Oh please, John, how can you love and hate someone at the same time?” Sherlock exclaimed, looking at John as if it’s the most-

John groaned, clenched his fists, and shouted, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face dropped. He frowned, confused. John rarely cursed. Did he say something wrong? Did he do something deemed socially unacceptable again? Was John really that protective about his war poetry book? Or was it because- Oh. Sherlock stared at John, eyes wide as the pieces of the puzzle began to click in his head. John’s cheeks flushed red, but he didn’t look away.

John sighed, ran his fingers through his hair and said softly, “That’s just how people feel, okay? I won’t bother explaining it to you. Clearly, you’re not in love at the moment.”

He sounded so disappointed that Sherlock’s heart clenched and began to beat abnormally. He opened his mouth to say an apology, but closed it.

“I should have known you wouldn’t understand... Forget I said anything.”

He left, leaving Sherlock staring at his retreating figure. He heard John drag his feet up the stairs and slam the door shut.

The next day, John found a piece of paper in front of his bedroom door. He frowned in confusion as he picked it up and open it. It was a poem – or rather, it was a drastic attempt to write one. It was full of erasures and blotches of ink and scratches everywhere, but most of all, it was unmistakably Sherlock’s.

Written on the very bottom was a note:

 

_‘You were right. – SH’_


End file.
